The Land Down Under (a Bond short story)
by G12G4
Summary: 1881/82, Brussels, Belgium. While investigating sex trafficking between Britain and Belgium, James Bond (AKA Roger Norbert), stumbles onto a lead in the case of serial murderer Charles Chapman, the man who murdered his father. Abandoning his mission, Bond follows the lead to Australia where he unwillingly teams up with Australian Agent Mick O'Lally on a journey through the Outback.
1. Chapter 1

_June 15, Brussels, Belgium 1881_

Roger stepped into the bakery less interested in purchasing a loaf than simply getting out of the rain which had started light enough but which was now pounding so violently against the paving stones of the road that it sounded as if he had stepped into the middle of an African drum circle. The baker, a man who had at least two inches on Roger in height and the muscular build of one who is used to tossing around fifty pound sacks of flour as easily as if they were feather pillows, regarded Roger from the counter.

"Goedemiddag," Roger said, giving his Dutch an afternoon stroll. He had only been in Brussels a month and was still not wholly fluent in the language, often slipping into the more comfortable German he was accustomed to. Still there was no better practice than with store clerks who were quick to forgive a lapse and even quicker to forget a face in a large capitol city such as this. He continued in what was fairly smooth, if slightly overaccented Dutch, "I would like a loaf of brown bread, and a roll, please."

The baker nodded. Just then a man is a bright yellow rain slicker came bustling in from the outside. His face was deeply lined with a bronze hue from decades of sun and beaten raw from the wind. His white beard was streaked with grey. Underneath the coat Roger could see the telltale blues of the merchant sailor.

"G'day!" the man exclaimed roughly. "We're pullin' outta port tomorra' mornin' an we just found a whole mess 'a rats 'ave gotten into the bread an' spoil'd it all. Damned lazy ships cat. I'll need at least fifty loaves. Can't put it off any longer or we'll risk "

Roger knew he had now been wholly forgotten in the promise of this unexpected windfall.

"Where are you heading, sir?" the baker said in slightly roughened English.

"Where d'ya think? Back home to Australia! It'll be good ta' see the white sands of the bay again. You never find worser dregs or better mates than you will there. And that's not ta forget the wimmen. Ain't nothin' prettier than a shiela and a roasted rabbit to the eyes of a weary ol' seaman."

"You come from Australia? What brings you to Brussels?" the baker asked, not particularly attending to the answer as he went about prepping his counters as quickly as might be managed.

"Just a bit of trade from London. You're an Englishman, you understand." The man gave Roger a knowing wink. "There are things they sell in Brussels they don't sell anywhere else," he whispered conspiratorially to Roger.

"Yes... I am aware," Roger said. Yes, he was fully aware of exactly what the old sailor meant. It was precisely for this reason he had been sent to Brussels. For this reason his predecessor had been assigned. To look into allegations of a slave trade running not in Africans, but in destitute, painfully young British women promised good work and husbands in other lands and then impressed into prostitution upon their arrival to those gilded shores. "That must be quite difficult cargo to transport with a crew full of young men."

"You might suppose so, and I won't pretend a few of the men haven't sampled the goods, as it were, but most aren't particularly interested when there are perfectly fine grown wimmen. We've only had one real trouble. Man we picked up in Norwich, I think it was, maybe... fifteen years ago give or take. I don't exactly remember what year, it was so long ago."

"Must have been quite a bit of trouble if you remember him after all these years."

"Yeah, it was quite the thing, that's for sure. Some men, well you know, they get crazy bein' at sea for so long an' they see a young girl and it just turns their heads aroun'."

"So what happened?"

The old man waved Roger in, "Well, there was this girl, real pretty little thing, long blond hair, pale complexion, couldn't've been more'n twelve but that's not what her papers said an' that's all I needed to know. Headstrong, clever little thing. Well, she an a few of the other girls decided they would rather go on to Australia. Can't say I blame 'em. Girls in that trade have a better chance of attaining respectability in Australia than languishing in a brothel in Belgium until they are too old to draw the attention of the local men - they're lucky if the get eight good years here. Well, the man took a bit of a shine to her. Always treated her well, made sure ta give 'er a bit extra of his meal, chatted with her, nothin' to raise any concern about. He seemed like the perfect gentleman. At least until the day I found him in the hold with the girl slicing her up with one of the kitchen knives. She was starkers and almost completely black and blue but for where he had cut her. He had her bound and gagged and, well this was the strangest part," the man leaned in closer. "He had tied her wrists with a Catholic rosary - not one of those beaded types but the knotted kind. Well, she was pretty bad off, only lived for a few days after that. Wasn't much to do for it. Couldn't afford a scandal, wasn't worth it over a dead whore, so we threw the body overboard and let the man off at the first port we came to. There was somethin' very wrong with that one, I'll tell you that. Are you alright, sir?"

Roger's visage had paled markedly as the man's story went on. British prostitutes suddenly seemed his very last concern. "What was this man's name? Do you recall?"

The old scrimshaw pondered a moment before coming to it. "Hmmm... Charlie, I think we called him. Don't recall the family name, don't know if he even gave it. In this business it doesn't particularly matter who a man is, or was."

"Just one more question: what port did you drop this man at?"

"Hmmm... that would be Adelaide."

"Baker, might I have my order?" he called out.

The baker absently handed Roger a sandwich which was a far cry from the roll he had ordered.

"Well, it has certainly been an interesting conversation but the rain appears to be letting up, for the moment. I wish you safe travels and fair weather."

"You as well," the old man said with a tip of his yellow rain cap.

Early the next morning a tall, well dressed man with black hair cloaked in a naval blue pea-coat approached the deserted harbor through the fog coming off the sea. He ducked into the shipping office.

"Good day sir, I would like to book passage to Sydney, Australia for one, please, on the earliest possible ship."

"Very good," the clerk said. "And what is the name?"

"Bond. James Bond."


	2. Chapter 2

**Woman found dead off of North Pier**

Police confirm reports that a woman was found

dead yesterday morning on the beach beside the

North Pier. Police suspect the woman was the

victim of a shark attack. The shark did grievous

injury to the woman making identification

difficult, according to police. Police warn that

while shark attacks are unlikely, people should

avoid swimming at night when sharks prefer to

hunt. Witnesses to the scene question the

police account, claiming it appeared to be foul

play.

* * *

 _July 18, 1864_

 _Mr. Benjamin Granger_

 _Main Office Rm 36, Preston England_

 _Have arrived in Blackpool by morning train._

 _Meeting with local authorities at one._

 _Will write with further details soon._

 _Best regards,_

 _Lord Francis Norbert_

* * *

Roger placed the yellowing dispatch over the ancient newspaper clipping, both papers now eighteen years old. He stretched his arms out wide, leaning heavily back on the chair. Regaining himself he checked the rat bite on his hand - it was barely more than a darkened spot now. The plot to spoil the ships stores that he might have a word, unsuspected, with the captain had worked, perhaps a little too well. Granger would never forgive him for leaving his posting without permission. But this was not Granger's call. Where Charles Chapman was concerned Granger and duty and even the Queen herself must always come second. He knew this was the break in the case he had been searching for.

This proved what he had suspected all along, what his father had meant when he had written he would be delayed in returning from his posting in Australia, that his father had found Chapman. He had been away on a mission in South Hampton when his mother had received the letter, months after a telegram had arrived with news of his death of a suspected spider bite while out in the Australian bush had reached them. His mother had hidden the contents from he and his sister in hopes that he would not follow his father's footsteps. The dangerous life of a spy was not what she wished for him. She had been furious when she discovered he had contacted Granger to enlist. But there was nothing to be done for it. His mother had never recovered from the loss though she lingered on haunting the halls of their estate for years after until finally death showed mercy on her and took her quietly one Christmas evening as she watched the snow fall outside the window in her rocking chair. She requested the letter be buried with her, that no one be allowed to read it. It had grieved him not to honor either of her requests. But were he right, and it was Chapman who had killed his father, this was the last piece of evidence he left them.

He had poured over his father's notes hundreds of times during the interminably long voyage, going over the details until the words were seared into his brain, until his dreams were filled with images of white paper figures with notes marking where the injuries had been. His companion lay, neglected, in the berth behind him. A vexing little fairy called Jane who was somehow at once too willful and too concerned with propriety. He had become acquainted with her early in the journey by the aide of a missionary schoolteacher and had been at his side ever since to help pass the endless hours. At least, this had been true for the start of the journey. A malarial illness swept the crew and many of the passengers after they had made port off the coast of Africa. At which time Roger, whose time in Algeria left him unaffected, offered his assistance as a shiphand, much to the Captain's shock. He had proved more than equal to the task and had to confess he did prefer the occupation of swinging about the rigging rather than simply trying to while away the days with conversation and meals and staring out at the horizon. And Jane, of course, lying spent, on his pillow.

His eyes burned from reading so late into the night, but just one time more - before the ship made port in Adelaide - in case there was something he had missed. Something that might prove to be important later. He removed a letter from an envelope so worn the edges were beginning to give way into holes. The address was for Benjamin Granger, back when the Agency head had been in charge of the North West England Office. The envelope contained three documents: the first, an illustration; the second, a letter; and the third, and likely most important, the signed statement of the witness who had found the body. He opened the letter and read.

* * *

 _Mr. Benj. Granger,_

 _You were correct in your assessment that the local police might treat our investigation into the death of Melody King with a certain degree of hostility. To say they are unforthcoming would be rather an understatement. Determined to wholly scuttle the investigation is a much more accurate portrayal. When I arrived at police headquarters I was met by the mayor, himself as well as the constable. The mayor shook my hand and promptly informed me that my services were not required, it was a simple case of a woman falling victim to a shark attack. Uncommon? Yes. But hardly unheard of. To continue in this investigation, he claimed, would only be a waste of our valuable resources, not to mention those of his own officers who were already stretched thin enough with the business of the season. I informed him that I understood his position but that, since I was here and our resources already wasted on the train fare, I might as well have a look at the body, for good measure. The mayor was reluctant but, as I forced the issue as one of import to her Majesty, he found he had no recourse and thus allowed me entry into the building. I asked if I might speak with the officer who had been the first on the scene but was told that he was conveniently on leave and thus unavailable for questioning._

 _The constable called over an Officer Jones to escort me to the morgue. He was a man of similar age to myself and of such a tight lipped mien I knew I should not gain further information from him - I am not certain he would have given me his name had the constable not said it first. I cannot imagine why they thought such tactics might result in doing anything more than to alert me that there might be something more to the case than a dead girl - as you were similarly alerted when you received that newspaper clipping in your mail without envelope or address._

 _I dismissed my escort at the entry to the morgue. He was adamant that he had orders to follow me inside but it was quite clear to us both that such orders were agreeable to neither of us (from the particular shade of green he was displaying at the entrance I did not expect he had the ability to follow me even had he been permitted and was glad of the excuse – the constable really ought to make a greater effort to be aware of his men's weaknesses as well as their strengths). I entered the morgue to be greeted by Doctor Holden who escorted me to the metal shelves where the bodies were stored. I shall relay to you now what transpired in full._

 _"You are here to see Melody King?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"One moment." He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked a metal cabinet drawer. Pulling the handle, the drawer opened revealing to me the corpse of Melody King. It was immediately clear why they had not wished for me to see the body. The doctor clicked his tongue, "Such a pity."_

 _"They claim it was a shark that removed her hands and abused her body?"_

 _"That is what they say," Dr. Holden said._

 _Noticing something about the unnaturally hollow shape of the left cheek I probed my fingers between her blue lips, careful to avoid a line of scabbed over blood where they had been split. Drawing my finger down the inner line of her jaw I felt her front teeth and then nothing. With both my hands I gently pried open her mouth to find the molars missing. On the right, two more molars were missing as well._

 _"I believe he knocked them out with a blow from a blunt object or his fist. You can see the shape of the bruising on the cheek is round, like a fist." The doctor curled his own fist into a tight ball to demonstrate. "But the two missing teeth on the right appear to have been yanked out."_

 _"How can you tell?"_

 _"You can see on the left most of the tooth sockets are open, but here and here," he pointed to a number of white circles within the pale gum, "you can clearly see portions of the root where the tooth fractured from the force of the blow. You can also see where the flesh of the gum has been lacerated on the side of the cheek, but it appears it was healing at the time of her death. Whereas with the teeth on the right he ripped out part of the bone with the tooth leaving these jagged holes. The knocked out teeth I've seen, but the others… Well, he's never done that before."_

 _"What do you mean, before?"_

 _Dr. Holden did not answer my question but unlocked four more drawers, pulling out four more women, each with blonde hair and none older than twenty. All of the women were missing their hands._

 _"Faye Donnelley, Jessica Lynch, Merinda Rigby, and this one we just call "Mary.""_

 _"Five victims?"_

 _He nodded._

 _"Tell me about them."_

 _"Mary was the first we found, she had been placed in a confessional at the Catholic Church, the one by the pier, sometime during the night and the Priest found her after morning Mass. From what I can tell, he beat her, cut her," he pointed to a number of cut marks that had been made on her arms and legs. Each mark was short, no longer than three inches, and placed at a slight diagonal just less than an inch apart in an almost herringform design. "and finally, stabbed her," he pulled the young woman up that I might see her back upon which was a large stab wound. I opened the wound slightly with my fingers to see the through the white of where the knife had glanced her ribcage into the darkness beyond._

 _"A hunting knife?"_

 _"A butcher knife, I think. You see where the edge is thinner than a hunting knife."_

 _"Did he rape her?"_

 _"I cannot say for certain."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _I will spare you the specific detail only to say that the doctor lifted up the woman's dress and I saw that her feminine parts had been repeatedly stabbed._

 _"Before or after she died?"_

 _"Before. And not all at the same time. A few of the injuries had begun to heal. They were not as deep. They would have been excruciatingly painful but not lethal. But the last few… if he had not stabbed her through the back, they would have killed her in short order."_

 _"What about the hands?"_

 _"Those were removed after death with, what I'm fairly confident from the tooth marks on the flesh and bone, was a hacksaw."_

 _"Do we know anything about the girl?"_

 _"No. No one has come forward to identify her. Judging by her general health and dress, I believe she may have been a prostitute."_

 _"And the others?"_

 _"The same general wounds. He started breaking bones with Miss Lynch and went so far as to fracture Miss Donnelley's skull. He's experimented with the time of cutting the limbs: for Mary he cut her before he killed her, but Miss Lynch and Miss Rigby he cut after they were dead, and for Miss Donnelley and Miss King he appears to have returned to cutting before death. It is strange because he washes the bodies clean before he leaves them. We are certain that they were all prostitutes by trade."_

 _"What are these marks on Miss Lynch's wrists?"_

 _"Those are from her hands being tied. They are deeper and go down the wrist further because she must have struggled against them."_

 _"It appears as though they were tied with a knotted cord."_

 _"I thought the same," Dr. Holden said._

 _"You said Mary was found in a church, where were the others found?"_

 _"Miss Rigby was found under a pile of straw in a back alley a month and a half ago, only a week after Mary. Miss Lynch the week following that buried in a manure pit. Miss Donnelley we found in a gutter just off of Talbot by the train station last week."_

 _"He made no attempt to conceal her?"_

 _"No."_

 _"Then we can assume he wanted her to be found quickly, something he accomplished more effectively with Miss King. Though at greater risk. I wonder why he would take such a chance knowing he might be caught. You were right to contact Mr. Granger about this case."_

 _"I'm sorry? I don't know who Mr. Granger is."_

 _"It is no matter. You say he is taking a new victim every week?"_

 _"That is how it appears."_

 _"Then that would mean he likely is torturing a new victim at this very moment."_

 _I will confess I was very surprised to learn this as I had interpreted his willingness to speak on the matter as an indication that he must have been the one who made contact. I am still, at this moment, uncertain of who sent you that newspaper clipping though I am sure I will uncover their identity. When pressed as to why they had not reported the murders, Dr. Holden said it was done on orders of the mayor, himself, who wished not to make a fuss regarding the death of a few prostitutes at the risk the information might find its way to the papers and forever ruin their bid to become a tourist destination._

 _I returned to the Police Station and requested, in the politest possible terms given their attempt to cover up that a madman was murdering the Queen's subjects, that I would like to interview the man who found Miss King's body on the beach in hopes I might glean more information. It seemed I was in luck, for the man had just happened to arrive only a few minutes before to inquire about the girl and whether her family had been found. Apparently, he is a man of some means and interested in taking care of the funeral arrangements if they cannot be located._

 _I have included his written statement as well as a chart of the injuries to the woman._

 _Best Regards,_

 _Agent Frank Norbert_

* * *

 **Witness Statement taken at 3:45 pm on July 18, 1864 by Agent Francis Norbert**

 _I was woken up early on the morning of July 15 by a seagull on my windowsill. It had been hot so I left my window open all night, but I left it open too wide and I suppose the bird took it as an invitation. By the time I had chased the misguided creature off I was wide awake so I thought I might take an early morning constitutional along the promenade to the pier. There weren't many people about, I suppose it was too early; but it didn't seem like there was anything out of the ordinary. Just an average, sunny Friday morning._

 _Anyway, so I was standing on the pier, just watching the waves come in against the shore when I saw something strange sticking out from under the shadow of the pier, looked like maybe part of a dress or something. Not having anything better to do, I decided to investigate. I do not know what possessed me to do such a thing, perhaps it was merely boredom, or something of a supernatural nature that wished her to be found._

 _I knew there was something wrong the moment I saw her lying there. She was far too still. I don't know what it was precisely, but it were as though a chill went through me at the sight of her. When I approached her I saw that her hands were missing and she looked very bad off. She was covered in cuts and bruises. I suppose I knew she was dead, but I shook her anyway to try and wake her. I suppose I just could not accept that someone such as myself had stumbled on such a thing._

 _That was when a man called out to me from the promenade. That Catholic Priest from The Sacred Hearts Church... Father... sorry, I don't recall his name. He always takes a walk early in the morning before daily mass. He asked me if everything were all right. I shouted for him to get help, that a woman had been hurt. He returned a short time later with a doctor and the police. The doctor declared her dead at the scene and the police took her away._

 _Charles Chapman_


	3. Chapter 3

To my dearest Priscilla,

I have safely arrived in Blackpool. The journey was largely uneventful excepting for a cow that wandered onto the train track and required near an hour of persuasion before she finally decided to move along. I know you would ask so I will tell you she was completely unharmed when she walked away, if somewhat irritated by the attention. You have always had such a tenderness for the animals - our estate would be lost were you not there to manage it. Who else could know the individual names of ten head of cattle and over one hundred sheep? And know the exact number? Who knows what is best to plant and when? To whom could I trust the running of the estate and the grounds to but you? How I wish I were there more often to manage it by your side! And you would tell me, "Francis, dear, it is not as though you cannot be. Perhaps it is time that you retire? They cannot expect you to work until you are fifty." To which I would normally reply, "A man needs occupation or he will wither and die. Better that I be away than languishing on an large estate only occupied with shooting and drinking brandy and having younger men visit to tell me of their travels. I should never be happy!" But then there are cases, such as these, which lead me to see wisdom in your words. My darling, I am afraid this is an instance of a case where I shall be required to be away for a bit longer than expected.

This is not a simple case of a shark attack, as we both suspected it would not be, nor even one of an isolated murder. Despite the efforts of local authorities to hide the information from me, it has come to my knowledge that this girl is the fifth in a series of murders. All of the women are of the same physiognomy and occupation, each is young (none older than twenty), blonde, and was working as a prostitute at the time of their death. I shall not go into the details except to say I am certain it is the same murderer and that time is of the essence for he likely already has possession of his sixth victim. I know Roger should like to assist with the case, once he hears of it, but I would ask that he remain home. There are things that a man may see in his life that remain with him until his dying day. What this man does to these women is monstrous. Roger is only nineteen, too young to have such horrors leave their tattoo upon his mind - at least if I might prevent it. He will want to come anyway, I am sure. As you are fond of saying, "He is his father twice over." I am certain that when I was his age I would not have been content to remain home when there was adventure to be had. Still, he must remain at home. This man, whomever he might be, wishes to gain our attention. I believe it was he who sent the newspaper clipping. If that is the situation at hand then it is because he would feel he has outsmarted the local police and is seeking a new opponent to match wits with. If I get too close he may become dangerous. While I fear not for myself, I trust in my own abilities, I would not wish to put a target on Roger's back as my son. I cannot properly investigate if I am worried about him. Tell him I will write him of the particulars and that the best thing he might do for me is give his opinion on the matters with fresh eyes.

I have obtained quarters at an inn off of Adelaide st., not too far from the shore. It is perhaps less than I am accustomed to, but it does possess a pub where a number of locals are wont to congregate which may prove useful for I imagine the lips of drunken workmen are far looser than those of the local police. I was grieved to see, as I entered the inn, a young girl, not older than fifteen, attempting to solicit the attentions of men who might pay her a few pounds for her company for the night. She was clearly far from a professional and her attempts at attention were amateur at best - like a child attempting to ape an adult at their work. I could not help but see in her face, framed as it was with golden hair, those of the women I had left earlier, lying still in their cold metal drawers. She appeared half starved so I invited her to join me for supper in the hopes that I might be able to convince her to - if not leave the life - at least, leave this town.

Darling, she ate as if she had not seen a morsel of food in days. I asked her about her life and her family but she was not forthcoming on either - she may have been young but she was wise enough to know I could send for her relatives to pick her up if I were able to find them. Still, she was perfectly chatty. She volunteered that her name was Penny, which immediately brought to mind our own Henny (at least, until she grew too old for that name as a consequence of coming out). Penny went on about a man she had met in her home town (though she would not say which it was) who had proposed that she come with him with the usual promises a grown man gives a girl of consequence, and house, and family, and flowery words of unending love steeped in poetry but not intention. He had, apparently without warning, left her a fortnight ago to serve aboard a merchant ship going he did not say where and left her no money with which to support herself. But she knew he would come back for her soon if she could only manage until then. I hated to be the bearer of cruel words but I advised her to leave, for her own safety, because there was a killer on the loose targeting young women like her. She brushed off my words saying that he only killed stupid girls and she was far too clever to be caught in his trap. I told her that, all the same, it would be better that she go, just in case. She avowed she could not, because her beau might return in the meantime and think she had abandoned him - that she did not love him enough to wait. At this, I asked if she was certain her would return. She took great offense to this and told me in no uncertain terms that he would return and then asked me if I was going to engage her services for the night or not. I replied that I was not. At which point she declared that she could not afford to waste anymore time with me. I gave her twenty pounds and told her to buy a train ticket home, wherever home might be. She was not too proud to refuse the money but I doubt she will leave.

I know it was a lot of money to part with to a stranger, particularly a prostitute, but I felt I must give her at least a chance. I could not help seeing Henrietta in her features. If she were our own daughter, had fate not graced us with good fortune and a daughter not easily influenced by passions, I would pray that there would be some man out there who would try to help her find her way back home. I know you would have implored me to do the same had you been there.

I also have become acquainted with a gentleman by the name of Mr. Charles Chapman. He was the unfortunate who happened upon the body at the pier and has thus found himself at the center of this madness. I was fortunate that he arrived while I was at the station to inquire after the young woman he had found. It seemed he was quite concerned whether she had family able to afford a proper burial. Even though she had been a woman of ill-repute, the thought that she might languish in a pauper's grave distressed him. Upon discovering she had no money nor relations to speak of; he offered to pay the expense of a simple funeral. He and I spoke, at length, regarding his discovery of the woman and he asked if the murder might have anything to do with the other women whom he had heard had been killed. I told him it was possible and that I would be investigating further. He was quite fascinated with my being an Agent of the Secret Service and asked me quite a number of questions, most of which I was not at liberty to answer. In all, I found him to be a rather pleasant fellow. He worried that I might not finish the case in time for Sunday dinner and has generously invited me to dine with his family at their house just off of Anchorsholme Lane this Sunday if I am not yet home. I shall be glad of the hospitality for it is very rare to have a home-cooked meal on a case such as this. Though I know it shall not compare to Mrs. Puddleton's cooking and you may tell her I said that, for I miss her steak and kidney pies most acutely when I am away.

The weather has taken a rather unpleasant turn as I write this. I sensed it earlier today that a storm was brewing. Already I can hear the thunder in the distance. I wonder if it will pass you by or turn north? Take care, my love, and know that, even though we are parted, it is only for a short time and soon I will be home to your loving embrace.

Your dearest friend,

Francis

* * *

Roger,

I will not pretend to be ignorant of your disappointment that you will not be able to assist me with the case at my side. I assure you Mr. Granger and I are in agreement on this particular issue. You are not yet an agent and, unfortunately, given the reticence of the local authorities, it would do significantly more harm than good to bring in anyone else on the case - particularly one who has not been cleared by the Secret Service yet. You will get your chance, of that I am certain. In the mean time I would ask you to serve as my sounding board, if you will. If there is anyone who might spot something I have missed, it is you.

The particulars of this case are as follows:

Five women, all employed as prostitutes have been brutally murdered. Each of the women was blond and under the age of twenty. Each woman suffered some degree of physical abuse before she was killed and each were killed in the same manner. Each woman was stabbed through the back into the heart with a butcher's knife and then her hands were removed with a hacksaw.

The stabbing of the heart through the back lends itself to obvious interpretation. However, given a few of the other particulars of the case, I am hesitant to deem this a simple jilted lover. I believe you will come to agree with me as you read on.

The women had a number of superficial knife wounds on their arms and legs of about three inches in length. For the first, fourth, and fifth women these were inflicted prior to death whereas the second and third women had the wounds inflicted after death. The cuts are done in a herringform pattern, as opposed to randomly. For the life of me I cannot figure what these are meant to represent except that inflicting them appears to be quite important to him. It cannot simply be for the purpose of causing pain because he has performed them after the women's death as well as before. At the moment he is showing preference for doing it before death, but whether that will hold or what has caused him to change back, I cannot say.

He mutilates the woman's privates but not all at once, this particular torture is meted out over time. Because of these injuries it is impossible to tell whether he has raped these women or whether the act itself is standing in for rape that he is either unwilling or unable to perform. In either case the injuries would be excruciating and cruel, though, in the former case, much more so. If that were the case it would likely be meant to inflict severe pain. The healing present with these injuries tell us that the women were probably held a week before their deaths.

The murderer has lately taken to beaten the victims with increasing violence, to the level of clear torture. He intentionally pulled out two of the last woman's teeth. The last few women would have been in terrible pain from the beating injuries alone before they died. There was evidence that the killer bound the wrists of one of the women, however, it was impossible to tell if the other women had also been bound in this way, for the obvious reason. Interestingly, there is no evidence of other bindings or a bruising from a gag on the mouth. Wherever he is committing these crimes he is confident that the women will not be heard if they scream - another indication of planning on his part. The severity of the beatings indicates a great deal of rage toward the women. This may be a manifestation of his rage toward prostitutes but could even go so far as all women, in general, with prostitutes simply being the easiest target.

He makes a point of washing the women before he dumps the bodies. Were it not for his choice to bury one of the women in manure I would guess the act to be religiously symbolic, as though he has cleansed them of their sin, but clearly, that cannot be the case. Instead, this is likely done to destroy any evidence we might find. That means he is already taking countermeasures against our investigation, that he has been from the first. These are not the results of random acts of passion but are clearly the result of contemplation and planning. However, he would not be a member of law enforcement or else he would be well aware that there is little evidence we can gain from a corpse. The mere fact he has employed washing the body shows a neurotic mind that is exceedingly paranoid in regards to the abilities of authority figures. Unfortunately, it also shows him to be clever. He will not be easily caught.

Based on the sites chosen to leave the bodies, I believe the killer to be a local and probably young man, judging by the age of his of the women. None of the women was particularly petite, each would have been at least seven stone of dead weight so it would require a rather strong man, possibly a laborer, to lift them and easily carry them to the places where their bodies were left. We must assume that the women were lifted for their were no drag markings on the bodies nor tears in their clothing and the locations were far enough apart that it is clear on at least one of these trips the murderer would have been noticed dragging such a large object.

I have interviewed those who found the bodies. As you well know, it is not uncommon for a murderer to wish to glean information on his case by placing himself into it as a witness. The first body was left in the confessional of a Catholic church, so it should be no surprise that it was found by the Priest. He swears the woman was not there when he left for his morning constitutional but was uncomfortable discussing the matter further.

Another was found by a local drunk who had imbibed a bit too much and had decided to sleep it off in a heap of straw off a back alley. When he woke up, he realized he had accidentally uncovered her arm. He was greatly shaken by the incident.

The third body was discovered by a carriage horse groom, buried in a manure pit. He is sixteen and stick thin, I do not believe him capable of physical feats required of the crime.

The fourth, was found lying facedown in a gutter with no real attempt to hide the body, but the person who discovered it did not stay, rather he reported it to a barman and left quickly. The barman could not describe the man in question excepting that he thought him to be Irish.

The fifth was found by a gentleman on an early morning stroll, though I must note that had the gentleman not found it the Priest who discovered the first body would have discovered the fifth one as well. I cannot help but wonder if this is simply coincidence or something far more sinister.

There is much that can be read into these facts, but I am not yet willing to commit to an interpretation. I feel as though there are several important components missing, particularly what he is doing with the hands and what the cut marks could represent, and if those were known we might be better able to find the killer. If this pattern holds, it is likely he already has his next victim - in which case, time is of the essence.

Take care.

Father

* * *

Roger turned past these two letters, still tethered into his father's ledger. He had not seen them until his induction into the Secret Service, years after they had been written. His father's ledger had been a gift from Granger. In it were dozens of letters to Roger's mother and to a fictitious Roger whom his father endlessly conversed about cases with. Letters never sent. As far as Roger had known, at least, so far as his father's actual letters had said, Lord Francis Norbert was attending an exposition on new farming equipment in Blackpool. To his nineteen year old self it had scarcely seemed strange at the time, but then, he had been more concerned with balls and the Everly sisters (as most men in the district had been). He had not the slightest clue what his father was - who his father truly was - not until his father, badly injured himself, brought the girl to the house. Roger's mother might have killed him for it. There was no hiding it, nor any attempts to. There, in the parlour, crusted blood still lurking behind his ear and dark bruises blotching his face, Agent Frank Norbert had told his son everything.

And suddenly the Everly sisters seemed nothing but a trifle when compared to the young woman lying on the snowy white tablecloth as the surgeon attempted to stop her from hemorrhaging out on the dining room table. He had been certain she would die. What miracle brought her through this second round of surgery he could only credit to God. She had been horribly abused. Even though he had only been allowed a glimpse of her he could see slices on her arms where her sleeves pulled up. Her face and neck were swollen and dark from bruising. The most fearsome thing were her eyes, red as blood themselves. His mother had shuffled him away from the sight, but he had still seen, for the first time in his young, privileged life, the sheer depths of depravity in man's inhumanity toward man.

It was not the path his father had intended for him to follow. But there could be no stopping Roger - as his mother had always said, he was his father twice over. His peaceful, simple existence of dancing and designs on how to catch a lady unsupervised while walking, his future as one of the Lords of Cumberland reclining in a club, drinking brandy and smoking cigars, the glamour of the world he had lived in was now lifted and he saw it for what it truly was. It was filthy and corrupt and cruel. It was not made of purples and golds and scarlets, but browns and grays and blood. And it was up to men, good men, like his father, to protect England from the truth of humanity. That they might go on believing all was well with the crown and kingdom. And to do this, not for accolades and rewards, but that, in fact, their work might not be noticed at all.

He had heard his father make the promise to the girl; that he would apprehend Charles Chapman and bring him to justice. But that vow remained unfulfilled. The girl disappeared into the night only a week after her arrival. The station agent had her going to London, but she was never found. His father threw himself into the case, finally tracking Chapman down to Norwich before losing the trail. Only three years later he was sent to Australia by way of Brazil as an escort for the Duke of Edinburgh. It was a great honour, he had said. Roger could still recall his father waving from the side of the HMS Galatea. It was the last time he would ever see him. Now he saw him whenever he looked in the mirror. In only a few years he would be as old as his father had been when he died. It was a sobering thought. Forty three. Only forty three. Not even long enough to go gray. He would find the man responsible for his father's death and then... he would do what was required to atone for those lost years.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sept. 30, 1881_

 _Adelaide, Australia_

Roger shuffled his duffel from one shoulder to the other, waiting in line to disembark. In his hand he held a rather fat novel. He scanned the crowd waiting to disembark. Finally, settling his eyes on his target he threaded his way through the crowd to the pretty, young woman with the auburn hair. He felt a pang of regret that he had not made overtures toward her. Had he, he was certain his nights might have passed much differently. She had been clear enough of her openness to such a proposition. But one hundred days was a long time, and, while she was certainly a fine enough woman, he had no great desire to wive her; and in that length of time the consequences of seduction could force him into precisely that situation.

"Here," he said, handing her the book. "It was most enjoyable. Thank you for lending it to me."

"I'm glad to hear you liked it. You must have read it at least twice through in the time we have been at sea."

"Three times, actually."

"Three times! No wonder we saw so little of you. You are quite the reader, Mr. Bond. Though I never knew a man to favor romance novels so much."

"I found it quite a fascinating read; though the supernatural elements at the end were, perhaps, a bit out of place, given all else is so well accounted for."

"I suppose that is Charlotte Bronte for you. What is this?" The woman extracted an envelope from the pages of the book.

Roger snatched it deftly from her hand. "It is nothing for you to be concerned about. I do apologize."

"A letter from home. Aye, I have a few of those as well. They do make the distance a bit more bearable."

"Yes, one might say that," he said, slipping the tiny envelope into his waistcoat pocket. In a sense, the teacher was correct, the letter had made the journey more bearable. In fact, he was quite glad to put as much distance between himself and the writer of those neat little words as was possible. Even without looking he could see the narrow slant of the letters,

 _I thank you for your offer, it is most generous, but I fear I must decline._

 _Your friend,_

 _Dinah_

Perhaps it had been a strange sort of Biblical fealty that had possessed him to ask. That the intended of a man who was as much his brother as anyone could claim should be the responsibility of the next in line. And why should he not have made an offer? She was as beautiful and well-mannered as any man could wish with a keen mind checked by her own sensibilities. He had much to offer, certainly she would want for nothing. He would be a dutiful husband and she a fine wife. And she would know what he was. She had once consented to be the wife of a spy; why not again?

He should have known better. It was too soon. And she blamed him. Why should she not? It was his fault. He could see the accusation in her eyes whenever he saw her. It was his fault James had died. She would never go so far as to say it - she would deny she even thought such a thing - but it was there, just below the surface in all she did. Still, she was polite when he visited, kind, always eager enough to discuss the girl who had been their temporary ward. The poor unfortunate he had led down the Darent to escape her homicidal fiance and uncle. It seemed Dinah had adopted the girl for a friend, as Dinah had a habit of doing whenever there was a creature in need. She was kind; perhaps too generous with her kindness, for the "mad" daughter of the Moore family was not the wisest association to make given the reputation of both her father and her brother. But then, Dinah's twin brother, Quentin, was fond of the girl. How he could ever be so fond of that stubborn, willful, arrogant slip of a girl was beyond Roger's ken (he would never admit a certain soft spot that had kept him tethered to her bedside as she recovered), still, he was. Still, she made Quentin smile.

The idea that they might eventually be matched brought Dinah some private joy, for Quentin had responded to her fiance's death with a display of melancholy that rent her heart though she never could understand the depths of it. Despite their closeness since even before birth, she was unable to conceive of his pain. But Roger had seen it in the younger man's eyes as he had given the eulogy for a small box buried in an unmarked grave at the corner of the churchyard. He had loved James too, probably more than was proper. Certainly more than was prudent for a man of his position. That was a love for poets, for playwrights, not for preachers. Roger wondered if Dinah knew, if she suspected the truth about her brother. She had probably never even thought to notice it. The Moore girl was likely not to find a husband, particularly now that she had already once been abandoned, so why should they not be matched if they were tolerably fond of each other? Perhaps if her brother were married, Dinah would feel less compelled to martyr herself to the care of her father and brother.

It was not that Roger intended to renew his sentiments, for her love could never be his and his feelings were not enough to survive the humiliation of one rejection, but it seemed a sin to let such beauty go to waste. Or, perhaps, it was his own guilt that desperately wished to see her married. That he might not feel he had destroyed her one chance for happiness and banished her to a life of servitude in that tiny parish house as an old maid. Oh, for a Mr. Rochester to sweep her off of her pious feet! Though preferably minus the murderous mad wife - that would be most inconvenient. He smirked, letting his hand run along the course rope of the gang plank.

* * *

He was nearly the last to leave the ship aside from the crew. There, at the bottom of the plank, stood a handsome young man, not much more than twenty years, with an open face and auburn hair streaked blond by the harsh Australian sun. He was dressed in a full suit despite the already rising heat.

"Mr. James Bond?" the young man asked, extending a hand to Roger.

"Yes. To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Agent Mick O'Lally of her Majesty's Secret Service," he drawled in that soft cockney twang of the native Australian.

"I assume Granger has contacted your office?"

"I've been ordered to turn you back the second you reached port."

Roger smiled in his most disarming fashion, still squaring himself in case the young agent decided to attempt to use force. "You must know that is not going to happen."

O'Lally just grinned, producing a thin file from behind his back. "I was hoping you would say that." His blue eyes almost twinkled as he handed the file to Roger.

"What's this?"

"These are the last notes of Agent Frank Norbert, I thought you might like to have them."

Roger opened the file with the words F. Norbert 16-11-1868 printed in black ink on the front to see the neat, uniform hand of his father written on the pages within. He ran his finger over the ancient paper. "You kept this all of these years?"

"Well, there was an order to send them back with the body, but I suppose they were misplaced."

"Is there a place we can speak in private?"

"I have a room at the pub jus' down the way." He indicated with his thumb toward a dirt road.

* * *

Roger lay his file out on the small table next to O'Lally's so that both covered the span of the wood.

"I've read the file through at least a dozen times," O'Lally stated. "Sounded like whoever this Chapman fellow was, Agent Norbert was bound and determined to track him down."

"He was easily the worst killer Blackpool had ever seen. He brutalized and murdered thirteen women in total before my father discovered him and he was forced to flee."

"Crikey!" The exclamation somehow made O'Lally appear even young than his twenty years. "Thirteen women? I'd never even heard of the case."

"You haven't for a reason. It's for the best they never sent this file. The mayor of Blackpool paid the then head of the agency to destroy all records of the murders in order that he might be able to maintain the image of his town as a safe place for tourists to holiday. He would certainly have intercepted these documents and sent them to the pyre as he had done the rest. It is only by good fortune my father firmly believed in keeping a personal record of his activities. I was able to find the hectograph copies of some of the more important case documents among the effects in his study. Not all, unfortunately, but enough. Are you certain you won't get in too much trouble for showing me this?"

"Nah, Granger won' suspect a thing, so long as we send you back in a week or two."

"That's not a lot of time."

"Well, we'll have to work fast, then."

"We?" Roger looked up from the file at the young man. "I don't mean to be rude but it would be best if I handled this case alone. It will be dangerous enough for myself, I would rather not have to worry about a greenhorn."

"You think there's a murderer lose in South Australia, sounds like Agent Norbert though' so too. Lookin' at his file, I'd agree. I'd rather not give the killer another go at it. 'Sides, you wouldn' know where to start. You ever been to Australia? From where I'm sitting, it's you who are the greehorn."

Roger had to concede O'Lally made a good point. It would be folly to attempt the investigation alone. He neither knew the land nor the natives. Even with his father's notes he would be lost.

"Agreed. I must ask, why do you believe that Agent Norbert was correct?"

"Look as this." O'Lally pointed to the death certificate. "It says the cause of death was from the bite of a Funnel-web spider. They found a dead spider and the fang marks and everything in the hut where Agent Norbert's body was found, righ'?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, but it says here tha' the body was recovered jus' north of Carawa near the border of the Great Victoria Desert. Funnel-web spiders don't live there, it's too dry."

Suddenly Roger stopped. On a plate was a photograph of his father, lying prone on the floor beside his desk in a tiny, one room hut; just behind a chair. It appeared as though he had fallen out of the chair while at work. A pen lay on the floor on the other side of the chair, probably having rolled off of the desk when its master fell. Papers were askew, one sheet having fallen upon his father's leg. There was a broken teacup, barely visible, on the floor at the far side of the desk. And there was his father's face. Discolored, strangely bloated, a thick line of white flowing from the mouth and down his cheek. Roger shifted his eyes to his father's hands. One was balled tightly into a fist while the other lay more loosely.

"Sorry. I shoulda warned you abou' tha'. Once we realized wha' he was, we made certain to document ev'rythin'."

Roger shifted the plate over to the other side, revealing an uncrumpled note in his father's hand containing only two words.

 _Wandana_

 _Elouera_

"What does this mean?" he indicated at the words.

"Well, Wandana is a place abou' thirty miles Northwest of here. The other is an aborigine girl's name, I believe. They found that bunched up in Agent Norbert's hand."

"Have there been any murders near Wandana?"

"Boundary Rider's daughter, not much older'n six. 'Bout four months ago. Her mother said she only took her eyes off of her for a moment, thought she must've wandered off into the outback. Aborigines found her body a few days later. They say it was the Yahoo."

"The Yahoo?"

"Righ'. It's a giant man-ape with white hair in Aborigine legends. We've 'ad a number of reports of Yahoo attacks from them over the years, takin' women and killin' 'em. The local office doesn' particularly take notice of the Aborigines or their superstitions; it was always jus' dismissed as an animal. But tha' girl... her hands 'ad been cut off." O'Lally paused. "Looked like 'e used a bowie knife." O'Lally unconsciously rubbed the silver cross that hung around his neck.

"Did he abuse the body?"

"Yeah, bu' we didn' tell the family the particulars. Wan'ed to spare 'em, you know."

"I'm surprised he didn't take them both. What did the mother look like?"

"She's pretty enough for a bush woman. Brown hair, brown eyes, skin brown and cracked as leather from the sun. No' much ta say, really."

"What about the child?"

"She was a right pretty little thing. Towheaded. Prolly woulda turned brown when she go' older. Same eyes as her mum. He posed her like she was sleepin', 'cept where her hands shoulda been there were only stumps." O'Lally was not gripping the cross tightly, Roger could see where a sharp corner impressed itself into the man's skin.

"Is it possible the natives might have moved her?"

"No. They refused to even touch her. Didn' wan' to anger the Yahoo. Perhaps he felt guilt over killing her."

"Remorse is not in Chapman's lexicon. You mentioned a number of reports of Yahoo attacks? How many?"

"Reported? Maybe ten. But that doesn't mean much, they don't usually come to us. They don't trust us. Not that I blame them."

"So there could be more?"

"I wouldn' bet against it."

"When was the child killed?"

"'Bout a year ago."

"It sounds like the child was found quickly."

"That's just the thing of it! She was found right by an Aborigine footpath. We'd been all over that area. One day there was nothing there, the next day they found her."

"Any tracks near the body?"

"Just ours."

"So he intended for her to be found."

"Why do you say that?"

"He covered his tracks. A man would not go to the effort to do that if he did not anticipate quick discovery and, I would assume, there are a number of places he could have put her where she would not be found at all."

"Honestly, even where he put her the Dingoes would have gotten to her before too long."

"How long?"

"An hour. Maybe two."

Roger hit the table, causing both the files and the young man across from him to jump. "Blast! He was so close and he still got away!"

O'Lally regarded the British spy with raised brows.

"Have there been any murders since the girl?" Roger demanded. "Strange disappearances? Anything?"

"Not that I've heard of. You'd have to ask the tribes, they'd know better'n me."

"No..." Roger said, thoughtfully. "No, he left the body where it would be found for a reason. He meant it as a taunt..."

"A taunt? Why would he want to taunt us? Wouldn' that make it easier for us to catch 'im?"

"Chapman is a perverse, deeply disturbed individual. But he is also highly intelligent. He feels the need not just to murder, but to have his intelligence recognized. He spent his entire life being deprecated as an idiot and an imbecile by the only authority he knew. Because of this, he feels that the only way to prove his genius to her is by outwitting the highest authority in the land. It is this, above all else, that completes the act for him. The murder is his bread and the game, his butter. But if he were intending to revive the chase he would have continued with increasingly public murders to keep your attention. And, in four months, you say not one more has occurred."

"None that I've heard of. Bu' like I said 'afore, that doesn' mean too much. It's big country out in Wandana and there are few out there who would come to us."

"No. He would make you pay attention. He's not careless; he would have planned his next move."

"Perhaps he's dead. Hundred things'll be more'n happy to kill you in the Outback."

Roger shook his head, such things were too much to wish for. "I think it's time we traveled to Wandana and paid this Elouera a visit."


End file.
